


Tense

by Musyc



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Community: daily_deviant, Ecouterism, F/M, Harry Potter - character, Hermione Granger - character, Masturbation, Ron Weasley - character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyc/pseuds/Musyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the tent, in the shadows, Harry listens to the noises at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tense

He can always hear them.

At first, he tried not to listen, out of friendship, out of politeness, but Hermione has never been able to restrain herself and Ron grew up in a family where quiet meant forgotten. They make efforts at keeping their voices down, but he can hear them. He can hear every sound and by now he doesn't try to stop. At the first whisper, the first gentle noise, he's awake, his eyes locked on the shadows overhead and his hand creeping down his stomach to splay over his hips.

He can hear the soft rustle of the curtains that hang from the top of the tent. He can hear the shuffle of their feet across the floor, the creak and shift of a camp bed. Maybe his, maybe hers. They seem to take turns, and Harry wonders if Hermione has made one of her inevitable schedules, even for this. If, tucked away deep in one of her books, there is a list with days marked through and nights assigned.

They whisper to each other at the start. Harry can't make out the words, even if he tips his head to face the curtain that hides him in his sleeping area, even if he strains his ears until the muscles surrounding them ache. He can't hear what Ron says, what Hermione says, but he thinks he doesn't really need to. He can imagine well enough.

Ron will try a few of the lines from that book he had, suggestions that are supposed to make a witch open and willing. Hermione will laugh and tease him, point out how foolish he's being. Ron will bluster and Hermione will take control, giving him better suggestions, more effective words.

Then the camp bed creaks and their voices go even softer. Harry knows their mouths are occupied with something other than talking. He listens for the sounds of kissing, the quiet movements of lips and tongues working together. One of them always moans when they kiss. Harry can't tell which of them it is. The sound is low and tight, sometimes allowed to float through the tent, sometimes cut off fast when they remember they're not entirely alone.

That reminder never lasts for long. Harry hears them moving and he stretches out one finger to hook the edge of the curtain by his bed. He moves it, just an inch, just enough to let the light in. There's a lantern at the top of the tent pole that glows all night, and Harry lets the golden light spill into his bed. There's a second lantern, burning behind the curtain that hides them, but he can see their shadows moving against the thin fabric.

He presses his lips together to hold back the commands he wants to give them. Move faster, move slower. Touch him like this. Touch her like that. He watches their shadows as they shift, as Hermione pulls her shirt over her head and shakes out her hair, as Ron kicks his legs out of his jeans.

He watches their shadows and he listens to their words as they forget they're not alone. They forget he's only a few feet away, tucked into his bed. Harry hears their rough breathing. Hermione's soft cries and Ron's rough grunts. He watches the shapes of their hands move over each other and his own hand slips across his skin. Jeans and pants to his knees, he lets his fingers dance along the length of his cock as he listens to them.

Sometimes they take their time, stroking each other's bodies, touching and caressing as if the night will last forever, and Harry has to bite down on the corner of his thin, flat pillow to keep from begging them to go on. Holds back his grunts and hisses as he wraps his fingers around his cock and pumps slowly, thumb brushing over the head each time one of them groans.

Sometimes they get straight to it and Harry grabs his cock like he's grabbed a Snitch, his spine arched and head back when Hermione lets out the high note of Ron's first thrust. He strokes hard, his eyes on the shadow lovers as Hermione's knees wrap around Ron's hips. Some nights she's on top, her hair like a storm as she rides. Some nights she's on her knees, her head down and her arse up.

Harry likes those nights the best. When Ron kneels behind her, Harry can see the shadow of his cock as it pushes into her, can match the slap of hips and arse to the harsh grunts and little whimpers. He can time the slide of his fist on his cock to the slide of Ron's cock into Hermione. He can hear the thrusts, wet and sticky, can hear Hermione shriek when Ron reaches around her thigh and fingers her clit.

Harry strokes his cock, faster, harder, as they pick up speed, as Ron grabs her hips and hauls her back against him, bollocks swaying between her thighs, cock driving between her folds. Hermione's breasts swing beneath her, nipples stiff in points that Harry can see clearly even in the shadows. 

He cups his bollocks, squeezes them gently, rolls them in his palm. He strokes his cock, presses into the heavy line on the underside, circles the ridge and the tiny slit. Ron grunts and Harry's cock drips thick fluid across his fingers. 

Ron comes first, grunting, his entire body stiff, his fingers locked on Hermione's hips, then he pulls away from her and falls onto his heels to gasp for air. 

Hermione pushes up onto her hands and swears. She shoves back against Ron until he remembers to push one hand between her thighs and rub, his fingers slick and loud on her clit.

Harry clamps his free hand over his mouth and strokes his cock fast. He hisses behind his fingers and he comes when Hermione shrieks. They collapse, all three, and Harry listens to their whispers, come drying on his stomach and fingers. He closes his eyes and sleeps, the echo of them, of all of them, in his ears.


End file.
